


Damsel

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Ficlet, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-23
Updated: 2015-08-23
Packaged: 2018-04-16 22:07:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4641891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fortunately for Bard, fairy tales follow strict protocol.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Damsel

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Fill for anon’s “You know thesee classic fairy tales where the beautiful princess is captured by a dragon and a prince has to rescue her? That happens to Thranduil. He is kidnapped and guarded by Smaug, who thinks he is the most beautiful treasure of them all. Thranduil himself do not appreciate to be captured by a dragon. Who will save him?” prompt on [the Hobbit Kink Meme](http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/9471.html?thread=21410303#t21410303).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

By the time he gets over the wall, he’s out of breath, and he needs a moment just to bend down and catch it, unable to shake the feeling that he’s _dreadfully too old for this._

He should’ve come earlier. He should’ve realized it from the start—Lake-town _needs_ the help of the elves, and without their king at home, that isn’t going to happen. They have their own worries, and there’s no one for Bard to plead his case to. He wouldn’t have thought he could do anything about that, until he heard Sigrid reading the children yet another fairy tale, this time a too-true story of a prince rescuing a princess from a dragon, and Tilda looked at him and said, _but you’re a prince, aren’t you Da?_

He isn’t really. Maybe it could be twisted that way, just barely. He does have the black arrow. It’s heavy on his back, and that’s the hard part, though scaling Erebor’s rubble-filled entrance seemed hard enough. The Lonely Mountain’s all a ruined death trap, but this monstrosity’s gone on long enough. With the Elf King gone, there’re less barrels to ferry across the lake, and the hoard inside this mountain could feed Bard’s children for the rest of their lives. Thranduil himself could do even better. Assuming Bard has a chance of rescuing him, of course. 

Bard creeps forward at a near-crouch, anticipating _fire_ , and ready to dive to the floor at any moment. He’s come early enough that the light still follows him, licking at the stone edges, but it won’t last him long. The front chamber is wide and reaching, covered in fallen pillars with the sun poking through the cracks in the broken gate, and he thinks it might be enough for a dragon to slip through. He draws his bow, just in case, holding it near at the ready, pointed forward into the darkness. 

A few more steps, and he catches movement at the end, followed by the sound of footsteps, hushed but echoed tenfold. His muscles tense in spite of himself, bow pulling tighter. 

But it’s not the dragon. The figure that steps out of the shadows is one Bard recognizes, if only vaguely—he saw the Elf King once as a child, riding through to Dale. Thranduil seemed tall and intimidating then, and still does now, but just as fair as Bard remembers him. Bard stops in place, and when Thranduil comes close enough for the sun to reach his golden hair, his whole body lights up like a beacon. He’s breathtakingly _gorgeous._

And Bard understands, numb and ashamed, why a dragon would consider him the most valuable treasure of all. Bard understands why someone would want to hold this magnificent creature, though he can see in Thranduil’s cold face that he hasn’t taken this treatment lightly. He’s dressed in silver Elven robes, a crown of branches around his head and tucked behind his elegant ears, likely no different than the day he was first taken. He looks at Bard, expressionless and regal, until his eyes fall to the black arrow affixed to Bard’s bow, and then one dark brow rises. A slight smile tugs at the corner of his lips. 

He turns and calls over his shoulder, “This is the one.” His voice is deep and calm, but it carries, murmured back into the depths of the Lonely Mountain. The silence that falls only lasts for one heartbeat, and then a sudden flare of _fire_ explodes behind them. 

Bard lets his arrow fall, grabbing for Thranduil’s arm to shield him, but Thranduil stays still and unafraid as the fire sizzles out from around the corner, which all falls back to darkness. With a hint of amusement, Thranduil comments, “He is furious.”

Bard, lost and with his blood pounding in his ears, grunts, “What?”

“You have the mark of a worthy knight, my makeshift prince,” Thranduil purrs. Then he dips, his long fingers reaching to pluck the fallen arrow from the ground, and he hands it back into Thranduil’s waiting palm. Bard can only gape, not understanding and half sure Smaug will appear and toast them both at any second. Thranduil merely sighs, mouth becoming a slicker grin, “You have no idea how infuriating it is to be held by a beast and treated as some sort of inanimate jewel, handsome or no. Even immortals have better use of their time. It is long overdue that the ritual was completed.” 

Bard blinks. “What ritual?” Then he shakes his head, swallowing and adding the more important question: “Won’t the dragon come after us? If he knows we’re here, which he must, isn’t he going to... well...?”

Thranduil lifts another eyebrow, and the phrase ‘eat us’ dies on Bard’s tongue. Then Thranduil gestures a disinterested hand, drawling, “The brute may have mistaken me for a princess, but he still follows the rules of old. He cultivated his treasure, against my liking, but he knows he will not triumph over the right hero. To prevent my rescue at your hands would be the end of him, and he has lasted far too long for that. You may take me home now.”

And then, as though that’s that, Thranduil sweeps elegantly around him. Bard spends a few more seconds staring at the place where Thranduil stood, then turns to peer after him. His gait is almost leisurely, graceful and sensual. Smaug’s treasure collection will be greatly depleted for this loss.

Bard’s still worried about Smaug, but the fire doesn’t come again. He’s grateful for it, and turns to hurry after Thranduil before this nonsense changes its mind. When Bard catches up, Thranduil notes, “You are the bargeman, are you not? I hope you retained an appropriate barrel of wine to celebrate our happy ending.”


End file.
